“More like the other bird, certainly,” said Clara, smiling; “but Mary, if you had but seen what that house was.  Joe Brownlow was one of those men who make themselves esteemed and noted above their actual position.  He was much thought of as a lecturer, and would have had a much larger practice but for his appointment at the hospital.  It was in the course of the work he had taken for a friend gone out of town that he caught the illness that killed him.  His lectures brought men of science about him, and his practice had made him acquainted with us poor Bohemians, as you seem to think us.  Old Mrs. Brownlow had means of her own, and theirs was quite a wealthy house among our set.  Any of us were welcome to drop into five o’clock tea, or at nine at night, and the pleasantness and good influence were wonderful.  The motherliness and yet the enthusiasm of Mrs. Brownlow made her the most delightful old lady I ever saw.  I can’t describe how good she was about my marriage, and many more would say they owed all that was brightest and best in them to that house.  And there was Carey, like a little sunshiny fairy, the darling of everyone.  No, not spoilt-—I see what you are going to say.”

“Only as we all spoilt her at school.  Nobody but her Serene Highness ever could help making a pet of her.”

“That’s more reasonable, Mary,” said Mrs. Acton, in a more placable voice; “she did plenty of hard work, and did not spare herself, or have what would seem indulgences to most women; but nobody could see the light of her eyes and smile without trying to make it sparkle up; and she was just the first thought in life to her husband and his mother.  I am sure in my governess days I used to think that house paradise, and her the undoubted queen of it.  And now, that you should turn against her, Mary, when she is uncrowned, and unappreciated, and brow-beaten.”

She had worked herself up, and had tears in her eyes.

Mary laughed a little.

“It is hard, when I only want to keep her from making herself be unappreciated.”

“And I say it is in vain!” cried Clara, “for it is not in the nature of the people to appreciate her, and nothing will make them get on together.”

Poor Mary! she had expected her friend to be more reasonable and less defensive; but she remembered that even at school Clara had always protected Caroline whenever she had attempted to lecture her.  All she further tried to say was—-

“Then you won’t help me to advise her to be more guarded, and not shock them?”

“I will not tease the poor little thing, when she has enough to torment her already.  If you had known her husband, and watched her last winter, you would be only too thankful to see her a little more like herself.”

Mary was silent, finding that she should only argue round and round if they went on, and feeling that Clara thought her old-maidish, and could not enter into her sense that, the balance-weight being gone, gusts of wind ought to be avoided.  She sat wondering whether she herself was prim and old-maidish, or whether she was right in feeling it a duty to expostulate and deliver her testimony.